Doom of the Darksword - Margaret Weis [32]
“— run smack into the realm of the Faerie Queen,” Simkin interrupted. “Perhaps our celibate friend has dreams of returning to her perfumed bower —”
“I do not!” Saryon snapped, his face — and, it must be admitted, his blood — burning at the memories of the wild, beautiful, half-naked Elspeth.
“We can turn east, if you like, O Frigid Father,” Simkin continued, staring nonchalantly into the tops of the trees. “There is a path, not far from here, that will take you back into the swamp you enjoyed so much. It will lead you, eventually, to the ring of mushrooms and, on the way, takes you deep into the heart of the centaur country for a fascinating look at these savage creatures — a very brief look before they rip your eyes out of your skull, of course. If you survive that, there are interesting and entertaining side trips into dragons’ lairs, chimeras’ caves, griffins’ nests, wyverns lodgings, and giant’s hovels, not to forget the fauns, satyrs, and other beasties …”
“You mean you are taking us this way because it’s safer,” said Mosiah impatiently.
“Egad, of course,” replied Simkin, looking hurt. “I’m not so fond of walking or your company that I’d prolong this journey, dear boy. By avoiding the river, where most of the nasties lurk, we save in skin what we expend in boot leather. When we reach the northern border of the Outland, we’ll veer east.”
It sounded plausible, even Mosiah admitted that, and Saryon made no further objection. But still he wondered. He wondered, too, if Joram had been aware of this or if he had been blindly following Simkin.
Characteristically, the taciturn young man said nothing, his silence implying that he had planned this out with Simkin long beforehand. But Saryon had detected a brief flicker of alarm in the dark eyes when the catalyst first questioned Simkin, and he guessed that Joram had been sleeping with his eyes open, as the saying went. And a certain grim tightening of Joram’s mouth when Simkin next spoke indicated to Saryon that this wouldn’t happen again.
They journeyed deeper into the forest and, by the seventh day in the Outland, the spirits of all of them began to darken. The sun abandoned them, as though it found this land too dark and dismal to bother brightening. Day after day of traveling beneath slate-gray skies that darkened sullenly into pitch-black night cast a pall over the group.
There seemed no end to the trees, and the murderous Kij vines were everywhere. There were no animal sounds; undoubtedly nothing could live long among the carnivorous plants. But each man had the distinct feeling he was being watched and continually looked over a shoulder or whirled around to confront something that was never there.
There were no more stories of Merilon. No one talked at all, except out of necessity. Joram was sullen and morose, Simkin insufferable, Saryon frightened and unhappy, and Mosiah angry at Simkin. Everyone was tired, footsore, and nervous. They kept watch by night in pairs, staring fearfully into the darkness that seemed to be staring right back.
Day after weary day dragged past. The woods went on and on; the Kij vines never lost an opportunity to pierce flesh and drink blood. Saryon was trudging along the path, head down, not bothering to look where he was going, not caring since it was bound to look just the same as where he’d been, when suddenly Mosiah — ahead of him — came to a stop.
“Father!” he said in a low voice, clutching Saryon’s arm as the catalyst drew near him.
“What is it?” Saryon’s head snapped up, fear tingled in his veins.
“There!” Mosiah pointed. “Ahead of us. Doesn’t that look like … sunshine?”
Saryon stared. Joram, coming up beside him, looked ahead as well.
Around them stood the tall trees. Below them crawled the Kij vines. Above them, the sky was dull, dreary gray. But ahead of them, not far off — perhaps half a mile — they could see what appeared to be warm, yellow light filtering through the trunks of the trees.
“I think you